


Reaching Out for You

by sordes



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: Gladio smiles, thinks he ought to tell Ignis just how lovely he looks in the firelight later, but then Ignis turns his head so he’s looking directly at him. ‘Looking’ is a misnomer, of course, but his right eye is half-open in that way it gets when Ignis is concentrating on something and forgets to hold his eyelid shut. Though Gladio knows Ignis can’t see him, there’s something in the way that his milky pupil finds him in the gloom. It makes the breath catch in Gladio’s chest and all at once the hunger roiling in his guts, the tension in his shoulders, hell, even the grief at losing so much in such a short span of time leaves him.All it takes is a look.The one where Gladio tries to rekindle something lost with Ignis. Written for the lovely Sauronix for the inaugural TBL Exchange.





	Reaching Out for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sauronix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/gifts).



> Apologies if the content is _slightly_ off-prompt, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Ignis slips into the tent to find sleep before Gladio most times, if there is a tent at all, that is. ‘Conserving energy,’ he calls it, like he’s some great cat out on the savannah, idling in the shade to make a sweltering day pass by. Gladio knows he’s just tired, hell, he is, too, but he doesn’t press the issue. With Ignis’… injury, it’s vital he’s at peak performance day in and day out. There’s not enough food to keep everyone fed as much as is ideal, but sleep is something most can get an abundance of.

If there’s one downside to Ignis retiring so early, however, it would be the decline in intimacy between them.

It’s never anything Gladio would complain about—at least not now, not while they’re still adapting and learning to survive in the darkness—but it’s something he does think a lot on. What else is there to do when they’re not trouncing daemons, anyway, but think? Ignis has been distant since Altissia; emotionally and physically at first, now just physically.

Gladio can hardly blame him, really. Ignis confides in him still, he isn’t afraid to say when his scars hurt him, or ask for pointers when he leaves his flank undefended. But Six, Gladio can’t remember the last time Ignis came to him, mouth hungry for his, hands shaking in anticipation of all the ways they were about to take one another apart.

Losing Noct has been hard on both of them. The world going to shit arguably more so.

But Gladio’s still alive; blood’s still pumping through his veins. He has wants and needs, and deep down, he thinks Ignis still has them too. But Ignis has been made vulnerable enough in the past few months, and he doesn’t seem too keen on embracing that side of himself again quite yet.

Gladio’s not afraid of rejection, but rather at the idea that he’s projecting. That he’s building up this image of them, weathering the storm of the apocalypse together, when Ignis has closed that chapter in his life and moved on to something else. Maybe he’s just building it up in his head, given how long since they’ve been intimate; performance anxiety rearing its ugly head. No matter how he cuts it, though, propositioning Ignis in a crowded hunter camp where the sleeping tents are full to the point of bursting makes it even harder to ask. So for a while, he just doesn’t.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened that day. There were no close brushes with death, no grievous injuries. All things considered it was a quiet and uneventful day spent around camp, Gladio helping organize and catalog the meager supplies, and Ignis walking some of the hunters through a few of his trusty recipes—the kinds of stews that the he’d made for the retinue when funds and supplies were tight. Gladio never had the courage to ask just what went into the stew pot on those nights, but man did it taste good. Though handling a chef’s knife with precision still eludes Ignis, his keen sense of taste and vast knowledge of herb and spice blends is something unfortunate circumstances can’t so easily rob him of.

At some point Gladio looks up from the ledger he’s been squinting over in the supply tent and sees Ignis from across the way, the licking flames and smoke from campfire distorting his face somewhat. Ignis has abandoned the dark shades, lost them a fight, and wears his hair unstyled these days, his bangs long enough to conceal part of his scar but not all.

Gladio smiles, thinks he ought to tell Ignis just how lovely he looks in the firelight later, but then Ignis turns his head so he’s looking directly at him. ‘Looking’ is a misnomer, of course, but his right eye is half-open in that way it gets when Ignis is concentrating on something and forgets to hold his eyelid shut. Though Gladio knows Ignis can’t see him, there’s something in the way that his milky pupil finds him in the gloom. It makes the breath catch in Gladio’s chest and all at once the hunger roiling in his guts, the tension in his shoulders, hell, even the grief at losing so much in such a short span of time leaves him.

All it takes is a look.

Ignis crawls into the sleeping tent first, hours later, and Gladio promises he won’t be far behind. They’re leaving this camp tomorrow, back to Lestallum to regroup with Prompto and the Marshal. They’ll both need to be alert and ready to defend themselves, should the need arise. But Gladio can’t get the image of Ignis looking at him from the other side of the fire out of his head. He can’t just push it down and wait till they’re behind the relative safety of Lestallum’s walls and barricades to try and recover that part of their relationship.

A short time later Gladio gently lowers himself onto the bedroll next to Ignis, arranging himself on his side so he’s curled against Ignis’ back. Like every other night in every other camp, the tent is full but silent. Seems like most sleep like the dead these days. Gladio drapes a heavy arm over Ignis’ side, something he used to do often, then scoots a touch closer and waits.

There’s a faint but distinct line of tension running up Ignis’ spine. He’s not asleep and he’s not protesting the contact. A good sign as any to proceed.

Slowly, cautiously, Gladio nestles his face into the nape of Ignis’ neck, the short, flaxen hair soft despite everything. In all honesty he doesn’t smell great—humanity is long past finding cologne or aftershave or, Six, even premade soap in abandoned gas stations and corner stops—his skin carrying in parts hints of sweat, dirt, and iron, and the bedroll itself reeks of wet dog. Even so, it’s no deterrent. The fact that Ignis smells this way means he’s alive.

Gladio presses his lips to Ignis’ skin and can taste the salt, a hint of smoke from the campfire. Underneath it all, though, Gladio just smells and tastes something distinctly human and distinctly Ignis. Something that makes him hold on tighter and draw Ignis in closer.

With the tent as still as it is, full to the brim with sleeping bodies, Gladio anticipates Ignis gently wriggling out of his hold. Maybe he’ll offer a sympathetic pat, a gentle instruction for Gladio to go to sleep, to stop while he’s ahead. But instead Ignis sighs lightly. He gives Gladio’s arm a gentle squeeze as if to ask, ‘ _are you alright?’_

Gladio kisses his neck again, lips lingering on the spot, pressing a silent affirmation there. _Yep._

What Gladio would’ve given to have been able to hold Ignis like this in his arms when it was just them and two others in their motley crew sharing a tent. It feels ridiculous now, the lengths they went to for privacy, how every encounter, no matter how innocent, was charged with that nervous energy, both parties terrified of getting caught. They never spoke on why they felt that way exactly—a fear of disappointing Noct? Of putting doubt to their loyalty? Perhaps they were just afraid of putting a name to the feelings between them, to acknowledging they were more than just ‘very close.’  

But here and now, with darkness all around them, it just feels easy. Their bodies fit together like they were meant to.

It’s slow, slower than it has any right to be, given their surroundings. Gladio’s hand drifts to Ignis’ hip, the bone hard and distinguishable despite his layers of clothes. Ignis stretches out, pressing his back into Gladio’s chest, letting him do as he pleases. It almost feels inevitable when Gladio pushes up the layers and unfastens Ignis’ belt. The ritual of sex is slow, never rushed. The fear of detection doesn’t pass through Gladio’s mind, and doesn’t seem to occur to Ignis, either, from how he works at Gladio’s own button and fly, reaching blindly behind himself.

In another place and time it could be a lazy Sunday morning, before the sun’s come up to officially start the day. Gladio falls into a slow rut, working himself against Ignis’ backside, a thick, calloused hand stroking Ignis off. Ignis writhes against him, silent but soft and wanting this, wanting to feel something. Panting into the nape of Ignis’ neck, Gladio eases himself in the small space between Ignis’ slender thighs and rubs himself along the underside of Ignis’ arousal.

Hips and hands moving at a languid but steady pace, both work up a steady sheen of sweat. Ignis sighs then is silent, squeezing his thighs around Gladio, maximizing the friction there. Despite the smell and their surroundings, Gladio’s body is more than willing and he finds his release in a few haphazard thrusts, breath shuddering and breaking on Ignis’ neck. Tension uncoils from his stomach as he wrings the last of the sensation from his skin with a lazy grind, then he presses another kiss to Ignis’ perspiration dotted neck.

Ignis’ slight fingers appear in Gladio’s loose grip around himself and he takes hold. Gladio sucks in a few deep breaths to recover, then reaches down, grazing his fingertips over the sensitive skin of Ignis’ thighs. Ignis’ back is straight as an arrow, taut as a bowstring against Gladio’s chest. Gladio’s hand dips between Ignis’ legs, gently palming and cupping his balls, weather and battle-worn knuckles brushing against the soft skin of his thighs.

Ignis comes in stoic silence, the tension in his back melting away piece by piece. Their hands fall away and they just breathe, both caught up in their own reveries.

Ignis recovers first, rolling over to face Gladio in the dark, legs intertwined, both sticky, sweaty messes. That milky pupil finds Gladio, seeing but not. A hand finds Gladio’s face, thumb feeling for his lips, his nose, orienting body and mind. Ignis rubs the scratchy stubble on Gladio’s chin. _Good?_

Gladio tucks his chin down to kiss the mound of Ignis’ hand. _More than._

Pressing themselves closer together, their breathing synchronizes as the lazy, sticky afterglow fades. Then they do everything again.

They lose themselves to the other’s hand in quick succession, hot breath hitting one another’s sweat dotted jaws and necks. As much as he wants to succumb to the pull of sleep, Gladio resists and pushes himself up, helping Ignis to his feet with him. Exhausted though they may be, Gladio knows they’ll regret falling asleep like this, splattered with one another’s finish like inexperienced teenagers.

Gladio leads Ignis out of the tent and to the far edge of the camp, the hunters on watch only giving them a cursory glance. There’s not much in the way of personal hygiene these days outside of Lestallum, but there’s a bucket of rain water and they’ve got a few scraps of cloth between them, so Gladio lowers Ignis to the ground and proceeds to clean him off.

He’s thorough, more than he needs to be, probably. The water’s cold and the cloth’s scratchy, so Gladio takes his time, smoothing it over Ignis’ skin until it’s pink. Ignis nods off once or twice, head bobbing down and up, but he lets Gladio fuss over him, wiping away the traces of their love making.

When Gladio’s through, he moves to rewet the cloth in the bucket to clean himself, but Ignis stops him. “Allow me.”

He takes the cloth, dips it into the water, and wrings it out, then reaches for Gladio. His intuition is not far off, and Gladio offers his arm, which Ignis takes hold of. He maps out Gladio’s exposed skin with one hand and works the cloth in slow circles with the other, lips pressed into a reverent line as he works. The cloth is cool on Gladio’s skin, and before long his teeth are chattering at the cold night air.

“Bear with me,” Ignis breathes, leaning in to wipe the cloth across his jaw.

Ignis is so close, his right eyelid drifting open once more, skin smelling of rainwater and their shared musk. Without thinking Gladio leans in and kisses Ignis’ left cheek, just on the edge of his scar. He expects Ignis to bristle, to move away from his kiss, but Ignis stays stock-still. Finally he turns his face to Gladio, right eyelid firmly closed, but a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Perhaps it’s for the best I can’t see what a sorry state we’re all in.”

Gladio presses another kiss to Ignis’ forehead. “Speak for yourself,” he rasps. “I still look incredible.” Another kiss. “As do you.”

A short time later they’re back in the tent, curled against each other not so much for warmth, but for comfort. They, too, sleep like the dead then rise a few short hours later. The trip to Lestallum is long and fraught with daemon nests and crumbling roads. But from the way Ignis squeezes Gladio’s hand as they board the convoy truck to depart, Gladio doesn’t care in the least. They’ve survived worse. This is nothing.


End file.
